taco vans and elementary crushes.

As our fully loaded Dodge truck meandered slowly up the Lewiston grade, my full stomach began to sing.

Yes, sing. It was as if my stomach was saying a heart-felt thank you.

That afternoon I had graciously given my stomach the gift of tacos and tamales. …and every single sample at Costco, but that is besides the point.

The point: I am now an advocate to taco vans(yes, vans) everywhere

In Lewiston, Idaho, across the way from Effie’s Burgers(also a dive) and kiddie-corner from Dairy Queen lies a completely sketchy van adorned with pictures, Christmas lights, and menus listed in Magic Marker. As you can imagine, it is not the normal place for me to eat–I am used to high quality dining. Fine dining if you will. My normal seat at Cougar Country would guffaw at me nearing the taco van(yes, van) dubbed Cecy’s Tacos.

I approached the van reluctantly. Noting the not-so-scenic scenery that surrounded it and the bargain-brand napkins fluttering on the table.

As I ordered (a Walla Walla taco), I began to develop a crush on the little taco van. It was like an ugly baby, or a misshapen substitute, or my Clark’s wallabee boots.

Once I sank my decreasingly-straight teeth into that taco, complete with avocados, shredded beef, and onions, my elementary-school crush became a full-blown romance.

I wanted to take that taco van out to dinner and a movie of its choice.

I wanted to share headphones with that taco van, blasting cliché love ballods and various Bruce Springsteen songs, and walk (hands in back-pockets) shamelessly through the mall.

I wanted to love that taco van every single day.

God bless that taco van.

Yum(x3).

It's unfortunate my 'I-love-this' face is so unflattering.

Merry Christmas eve-eve!

californiYEAH.

Story time:
This summer me and my friend Kylie drove our little selves on down to San Diego, California (yes, it was the longest trip ever and yes, Bubba Sparxx began to sound good after 27 hours in the car) to move her in for college. Our friend Morgan met us there (she was conveniently sick the day of our driving departure and flew down 27 hours later), and we had a gay ol’ time eating Pinkberry, watching girl-movies, and going to the beach despite our obvious pooches.
But I missed my sig-o!
So I called him.
Oh, we had a great chat. We began to chat about politics (Sarah Palin seriously looks like his aunt!), the Kardashian family, and other controversial topics.
Then! Then nature called, and it called hard. It was as if my body had a really annoying ring tone that I had to answer to, in fear that everyone else in Nordstrom’s would hear my Katy Perry ringtone…again.
I could feel that I was about to drop a deuce, and needed to IMMEDIATELY! So, I played pickle in my mind about whether I should a. Stop the convo, b. Ignore my body or c. take action AND talk. I wondered if I could pull it off.
My mind answered: YES!
So, I began shmooing. And talking. Simultaneously. At first it was fine, I even scoffed to myself about my multitasking abilities–looking at myself in my white top and white velour sweatpants, ponytail awry thinking about the humor of the whole situation. It’s like I was playing a trick on him. Ha!
Then…
Then it got loud. Very loud. Very out of hand.
So he asked: ‘Brooke, are you going to the bathroom? I honestly don’t care but…you should tell me.’
And I answered: ‘No! Ohmigawd, I HATTEEE when people do stuff like that. It’s disgusting…like you are on the phone with the person and they have the audacity to POOP! Gross! I would NEVER do that to you.’
…and I ranted like that for a solid 3 minutes.
THEN!
Then, I mindlessly flushed the toilet.
Thus confirming I had been pooping, loudly, and talking.
He laughed for a solid…ever.
I died for a solid..ever.
We concluded that it was a good thing that I was so relaxed talking to him that I could let ‘er fly.
…we’ve commonly been compared to the Kennedy’s (because we’re so classy).
Or something?

Observe.